


hold tight, hold tight

by stonedlennon



Series: how we won the war [2]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1930s, 1939, Alternate Universe - World War II, Class Issues, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Queer Culture, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-21 23:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9571199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedlennon/pseuds/stonedlennon
Summary: Paul meets John at a 'little gathering' on Falkner street. Afterwards, they slow dance at a bar. September, 1939.





	

**Author's Note:**

> behold: a chapter with _links_ to the actual **songs**!! incredible!! i did it mainly because i love to build atmosphere (also: swing/jazz is my favourite type of music, so). i'd be remiss not mention the totally overwhelming and flattering amount of attention the first chapter of this series has received. thank you so, so much to everyone who has commented, supported, or messaged me. it means a lot to me that you like this AU - thank you!
> 
> i've done a lot of research on the queer subculture in liverpool in the late 30s, but if you find any anachronisms, whoops, sorry! i really hope you enjoy this next part. and since, ofc, it's not possible for me to write anything short..... i hope it's a good read :~)
> 
> oh, and by the way, **[LOOK AT @SINGLE-PIGEON'S PIECE OF ART FOR THE SERIES](http://stonedlennon.tumblr.com/post/156842373857/hi-hello-so-i-was-reading-the-first-part-of-the)** [LOOK AT IT](http://stonedlennon.tumblr.com/post/156842373857/hi-hello-so-i-was-reading-the-first-part-of-the) [_LOOK AT IT!!!_](http://stonedlennon.tumblr.com/post/156842373857/hi-hello-so-i-was-reading-the-first-part-of-the) oh wow, you may be thinking! how does one come back from this! you may ask. the answer! i say, on my death bed, dying, IS THAT YOU DON'T HA HA HA. HA. HA. i'm dead

_We might have been meant for each other._

-  _Let's Do It (Let's Fall in Love),_  Ella Fitzgerald, 1933.

* * *

 

Over the low roar of the wireless and the cacophonous conversation of two dozen new recruits, Paul and Ivan drank their weight in beer.

The dockside pub they’d holed up in was a few blocks down from the university, where until yesterday they had spent many a sleepy evening in parade, or a stifling afternoon in naval training. Until yesterday they had been boys. Now, as Paul put down his pint glass with a clammy hand, they were expected to do their duty; to live up to expectation.

 _I am not a man of feelings, and you know this,_ Jim had written,  _although may it give you comfort to know that I am proud of you, my boy._

Paul had read and reread those words. He’d slumped on his regulation neat bed in the navy quarters and thought about his father sitting in the tiny kitchen on Forthlin road, peering down through his reading specs as he wrote, the incessant ticking of the clock breaking the contemplative silence. When Paul had first been accepted into the U.N.D., he thought that the forty minutes that separated his old life from the new could never be enough.

Time had developed a strange, slightly dreamlike quality. Their staff sergeant had announced during roll that morning that they would receive their papers by the afternoon. As the cuckoo flew, Paul was soon one of a hundred lads in junior uniform who opened an austere H.M.S. envelope in nervous anticipation.

DEAR SIR, it started, then, IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE NATIONAL SERVICE ACTS, and, PRESENT YOURSELF ON, to finish with, YOURS FAITHFULLY.

 _Yours faithfully,_ Paul echoed, his heartbeat sounding loud as a drum in his head.  _I’ve never even met you._

After that everything seemed to recede into the background. Even now, as Ivan pushed a sweating glass of beer into his hand, Paul could hardly recall having arrived in this dingy excuse for a pub.

“Buck up, you,” Ivan said loudly, leaning across the table. The curly blonde hair that was crammed beneath a flat cap tangled over his forehead, half-hiding those beetle-bright eyes that Paul had known since they were lads in stockings. “Outta all of us, y’should be the one who’s fuckin’ celebratin’!”

As everyone else had burst into excited conversation, Paul had remained rooted to the ground. When he glanced up and caught his staff sergeant’s eye, the man had made a subtle gesture, his ginger moustache quivering in pride. Paul concentrated on keeping his hands still when he turned over his papers to read the other side: CLEARED AS COMMISSION CANDIDATE.

“Yeah, right,” Paul replied sarcastically. He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and rested his elbow on the sticky table. “Rubbin’ shoulders with all the toffs? No thanks.”

“S’a com _mission.”_ Ivan punctuated the point by raising his pint glass. “No hard slog fer you, Macca!”

This caught the attention of their comrades, all of whom cheered as one and lifted their drinks. Paul grinned and shook his head. Someone slapped him on the back. The pub was feeling boozy and cheerful. Conversation swelled even louder; a voice from the back yelled, “’Ey up, someone put on that Lynn bird!”

“None of that, now, son!” The man behind the bar shot them an indulgent grin. As the boys howled their disappointment, he laughed and shrugged at a group of locals, who playfully admonished, “Our lads deserve some fun!” and, “Go ‘ead, now, Reggie.” The wireless soon cut out and was replaced with the sweet strains of Vera’s voice lamenting her lost love. The lads all cheered and thumped the table.

“Like a bloody farmyard in here,” Paul laughed, though his cheeks stung with the effort. He hid his expression in a deep gulp of beer.

“Can’t ruddy well blame ‘em,” Ivan pointed out over the lip of his glass. “Come this time next week we’ll be out on the open sea.” A distant look entered his eyes at the thought. “Bloody hell,” he said dreamily. “We’ll be shot at. By fuckin’ Germans.”

Paul drained his glass. “Not if ye don’t sink ‘em first.”

The room heaved with anxious energy. All day new swarms of the militia had been arriving in Liverpool, hanging off the back of huge army trucks, smoking and peering out at their new grey home. The Liver building had undergone a radical change seemingly overnight: in lieu of its austere façade and the merchant men who hurried up and down the stone steps, there were great Union Jacks hanging from the top floor windows and naval officers carting typewriters and boxes of clerical equipment. The entire waterfront was gripped with a ferocious, boyish sort of feeling, as if they were all about to spring off on a lad’s weekend in the country. With everyone pitching in for the War Effort, it was hard to remain impartial; everyone remembered sitting on their father’s knee and listening to another story of His Time During the War.

As had become a habit these past few days, Paul found himself wondering about that John Lennon fella. Did he really think he could stay out of the war mess? Could anyone? Since Sunday the entire nation had been swept into a patriotic fervour.  _[There’ll Always be an England](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Se7a-d_qGNc) _ had been played so many times on the wireless Paul felt that, due to the sheer force of will alone, England really wouldn’t go anywhere.

Ivan caught his attention. In an undertone he said, “Speakin’ of being sunk,” and gestured towards the bar.

Three girls stood nervously together. They glanced over at their gaggle and smiled shyly. Some of the lads whistled; they dissolved into giggles.

Paul made a face and took a drag from his cig. Noticing this, Ivan pinned him with an incredulous look. “You’ve got ‘til Friday, McCartney,” he reminded him. “Better make use of all that while ye still can.”

Thinking quickly, Paul said, “Keepin’ mum for Dorothy, aren’t I.”

“Ah.” Raising his eyebrows, Ivan winked at him sluggishly. “Don’t ye worry, mate. Good thinkin’ too. When’s the date, then?”

Paul blinked in surprise. “What?”

“The  _date._ Y’know.” Ivan mimed something convoluted that had Paul furrowing his brow. “You  _know._ Wedding bells. Ding dong, is the man home!”

“God no,” Paul blurted.

“Why the hell are ye holdin’ out, then? She won’t. Mark me words.” Ivan stared despondently into his drink. “None of ‘em are ‘anging about now. The sniff of a war an’ they’re all out flashing their knickers.”

Cheeks colouring at the implication, Paul primly tapped his cigarette into the ashtray. “Bit rough. They’re probably thinkin’ there’s no time like the present.”

“Wish they’d thought that before I was called up,” Ivan grunted. “Coulda spent me weekends off doin’ more than just holdin’ hands…”

Paul let Ivan drift into a monologue about the cruelty of the fairer sex. His problem seemed to hinge on their disinterest in stepping out unless there was a gold ring involved.

The clock hanging on the wall behind the bar read seven thirty. Brian had sent him a telegram yesterday reminding him of the party. HOPE TO SEE YOU THERE STOP HOPE ALL IS WELL STOP, and so on. Typical Brian, polite and cordial despite the fact it was now only a matter of time before Paul would be waved off the dock for good. The thought made his stomach curl uncertainly. Eighteen months. He’d been training for this moment for eighteen months. There was absolutely no need to twist himself in knots; there was no bloody  _use_.

Paul hadn’t bothered sending a reply. Despite knowing each other for over five years, Brian would still be hurt. When he arrived at the party, he’d have to make some elaborate gesture of friendship to smooth the troubled waters. The thought was a wearying one.

Exhaling smoke through his nose, Paul glanced back at the clock and stubbed out his cigarette. The last vestige of his beer was slightly warm, but it went down quickly. Ivan abruptly broke off his complaining to ask, “Want another, then?”

Paul shook his head and pulled on his jacket. “No, mate, ta though. I’ve got t’see a friend, y’know, before I go and all.”

Unexpectedly, a flicker of knowing entered Ivan’s gaze. “Oh, right,” he replied vaguely. “Yeah, alright. See ye back at hall?”

Paul struck a salute and winked. Ivan grinned. “Give ‘em hell, lad.”

“Don’t I always?” Paul sang over his shoulder. He pushed open the pub door to Ivan’s loud laughter.

The September evening was crisp as he stepped into the street.  A cool breeze swept up off the water, whistling around the enormous naval ships that had pulled into the harbour yesterday. They’d played a medley of songs to an enormous crowd, all of whom had yelled and cheered and waved handkerchiefs in the air.

It was perhaps a result of the mass excitement that few people were adhering to the blackout. As Paul stuck his hands in his pockets and started up the steep road, the overhead windows of flats winked yellow in the gloom. His shoes sounded on the pavement. A group of people on the opposite side of the street came clattering along, their arms linked, laughing merrily. They caught sight of him and called, “Godspeed, sailor!” Embarrassed, Paul held up a hand. They collapsed into renewed laughter.

How strange that they should recognize him for what he was.  _At least they see a sailor,_ Paul thought,  _and not something else._

That something else was currently en route to a gathering that, had Ivan suspected its true nature, would have Paul up before court martial before one could snap his fingers. To distract himself, Paul lit a cigarette. The end of it blossomed in the chill autumn air and warmed his fingers. The lyrics from [an old song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XVM-tFAdADg) wound through his mind.

 _Good-bye, de-e-ar All-erton,_ Paul improvised,  _fare-well Forth-lin road!_

He was thinking of how to change the second verse when he turned into Brian’s street. It was a good deal nicer in this part of town: the buildings were long and tall, the streets broad and fringed with wrought iron gates. Second floor windows glowed with lamplight; the distant drift of someone’s wireless accompanied him towards that familiar red door.

Paul stopped to chuck his cigarette and check his appearance. He smoothed the sides of his hair back, peering into the darkened window of a parked car, and on impulse undid the top two buttons of his shirt. Paul regarded his reflection. All he saw was a round-faced lad with glossy black hair, still slicked into its regulation naval style, in a clean but cheap cotton button up shirt, and a pair of slacks that he’d scrimped to buy from a high street shop. He licked his thumb and rubbed at a smudge on his cheekbone.

He suddenly wished he’d taken Ivan up on the offer of another drink. The vague prospect that John Lennon had even  _remembered_ Brian’s party was altogether too much, and Paul felt too sober, and he was leaving for war on Friday.

 _Oh God,_ he thought in a panic, and then,  _oh, calm down!_

Paul adopted a nonchalant demeanor as he went up the front steps. After pressing the bell for the second flat, he only had to wait a moment before a slightly breathless voice crackled, “Yes, hello, Epstein.”

“Hullo, Brian,” Paul replied, smiling. “Let a man in from the cold, eh?”

“I’m glad you’ve come,” Brian said. “Wait just a moment.” Paul stomped his feet on the front step and shifted his weight. He was inspecting the tips of his shoes when a figure emerged through the frosted glass of the door. A gust of warm, smoky air accompanied Brian pulling it open. He posed in the doorway, a warm smile tripping over his full mouth.

“I hope you’re thirsty, young Paul,” Brian said in lieu of greeting. “Because Monika has made mint juleps.”

Laughing, Paul came into the building. Brian closed the front door behind him and they started up the stairwell, which was illuminated by a solitary lamp on the second floor. The further the ascended, the louder the sounds of the party swelled. Brushes of a plummy jazz solo swung down to greet them.

“I should have known you’d think  _this_ was a ‘small gathering,’” Paul commented wryly.

Brian turned to catch his eye. His hair was sleek and set in a stylish wave, his double-breasted suit close-cut and flourished with a powder blue handkerchief. “My dear, large parties are intimate. That’s what makes them so very enjoyable.”

Paul hummed in response. They started up another flight of stairs. “The anonymity is really only a bonus.”

“Quite right.” When they reached Brian’s floor, he paused with his hand on the doorknob. Brian reached out as if to touch the hollow of Paul’s throat. “Two buttons?” He sounded amused; and, because Paul knew his game, uncertainly flirtatious. “My, we are out to impress.”

Paul blinked slowly at him. “Thought I was impressive all the time, Mister Epstein.”

Brian blushed. “Yes, well.” He opened the front door and shyly gestured Paul through.

The apartment was rather small, but it made up for it with the scrupulous furnishings. Elaborate wallpaper flowed into stylish furniture, upon which were scattered several bubbling figures. The air was sultry with cigarette smoke and the [sweet allure of Ellington’s trombone.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EKUa_rCUZhk) The first time Paul had attended one of these gatherings, he’d been privately thrilled by the mere fact that outside of the rare sapphist, the rooms brimmed only with men. Young men, tall and handsome; young men, with slow eyes and flirtatious smiles. Cigarettes burned low between long fingers, legs crossed to reveal slender ankle bones. Tonight Brian had evidently invited some of his more masculine acquaintances, for most of the men were dressed smartly and in the fashion of their own sex, but through the doorway to the kitchen Paul glimpsed Monika, a dancer from the Playhouse whose dress glittered in the warm lamplight.

“Can I take your jacket?” Brian was asking behind him. Paul shrugged it off quickly, Brian’s hands lingering on his shoulders. Pushing back a curl of hair from his forehead, Paul remained in the open doorway to the sitting room and took in the guests.

Several pairs of eyes appraised him through the silvery clouds of smoke. Paul felt their approval as if he had slipped into a warm bath. Tossing his head back to catch Brian’s attention, Paul said, “Shall I get a drink, Eppy?”

Just as he knew it would, the rare use of Brian’s nickname absolved Paul from not replying to his telegram. Brian smiled indulgently. “Allow me. Please make yourself at home.”

Another scan of the sitting room made Paul catch Brian’s sleeve as he slipped past. “Did, um --” Paul licked his lips. “Has John arrived?”

Brian’s expression gave nothing away. “Mm, afraid not. You did extend the invitation, didn’t you?”

“‘Course I did.” He’d be a fool not to.

“In that case, we can but hope.” Patting Paul’s shoulder, Brian said, “You could use a drink. I’ll just be a moment.”

As Brian swept through the sitting room, Paul followed more slowly. He recognized some of the men here, mainly from other parties of Brian’s. The conversation was largely cheerful, the excitement of war infusing everything with a sort of quiet freneticism. Although no one would dare wear his uniform to a gathering like this, Paul could pick the militia lads as easily as if they were at parade rest. He shared a small smile with a bloke who leaned against the wall by the window. Excitement shivered down Paul’s spine.

Brian reappeared as if summoned. The shallow, wide-brimmed glass he gave Paul was filled with something sage green. Paul raised an eyebrow and shot Brian an amused smile.

“Hush,” Brian admonished. “You’ll drink it and you’ll like it.”

For the next while Paul let himself dissolve into the party’s rhythm. As the music swayed around them, and countless cigarettes were lit, and drinks were sipped, the conversation rarely strayed from the war. “Oh, how tiresome,” a man with copper hair exclaimed, “no more talk of patriotism, I beg you.”

“Just because they wouldn’t let you in,” someone replied tartly.

“It’s true,” he lamented to a round of laughter. “They heard my lisp and went screaming to the other end of the ballroom!”

The mint juleps were beginning to warm Paul’s edges. He was in discussion with the bloke by the window when, over the hubbub, came the sound of the front buzzer. Brian hurried across the burbling room. The bloke was touching Paul’s elbow.

“Sorry.” Paul roused himself. “What did y’say?”

He smiled secretly. When he spoke, his voice was almost as nice as Brian’s. “I said, you’re rather interesting, for what you are.”

After a confused pause, Paul said, “Um, sorry. ‘What I am’?”

“Well, yes.” He frowned blurrily, still smiling, his glass hovering by his chest. Belatedly Paul realized they were standing quite close together; this did not however elicit the thrill it normally did. Leaning back a little, Paul fixed the man with a cool look.

“Oh, come now,” the man laughed, “please don’t take offence. I meant it kindly.”

“Dunno what you’re tryin’ t’say, mate.” In the back of his mind came a cold brush of understanding. 

_Straight to the Officer’s mess,_ that John had snapped to Brian.  _Easy t’call the shots when you’re not in the firin’ line._

“Please don’t go,” he was saying, straightening from where he’d languidly leaned against the window sill, “I only meant you’re not like  _them_.”

Anger tasted metallic on his tongue. “I am, though.” Paul smiled tightly, all manners and charm. “Do excuse me.”

He made his way through the crowd. Bodies pressed against him questioningly; clearly, the energy of the evening was picking up a notch. Paul said, “Pardon,” and, “Sorry, if ye don’t mind,” all the way to the kitchen, which was occupied by Monika and a man in a curled brown wig. The fuzzy overhead light cast a slightly tacky gaze over the otherwise fashionable cabinets and counters. Paul accepted a cigarette from Monika, who lit it with an elaborate silver lighter.

“Don’t pay ‘im any mind, my love,” Monika told him in a thick London accent. “He’s one of Brian’s chums.” She whistled to indicate the appropriate degree of toff.

Raising an eyebrow, Paul leaned back against the counter. “Is that so?”

“A right pain in the arse,” the man in the wig supplied. Aside from his hair, he was dressed in a pristine dark suit. He tapped the side of his nose in secrecy. “And not in a nice way.”

Monika laughed at Paul’s flustered expression. “Don’t tease ‘im!” She clucked and swatted at the man, who grinned broadly. “Dear Paul’s only ‘alf of one, ain’t that right, my son?”

“Yeah,” Paul replied after a nervous pause. “Somethin’ like that.”

“That’s a myth.” As Monika rolled her eyes, the man gestured with his cigarette. “No harm done, like, but ye can’t be only ‘alf. It’s either both feet in the river, or you’re on the bank.”

“Lucky thing I know how t’swim,” Paul commented lightly. Monika laughed in delight as the bloke went, “Oh, now I know why ye like ‘im.”

“Fancy that.”

Still grinning at Monika and her friend, Paul turned around to find Joe Flannery in the doorway. He exhaled some smoke over his shoulder and smiled warmly. “Oh, hi. I didn’t know ye were here, Flo.”

Joe, who was tall with modest dark looks, smiled and came softly into the kitchen. He held a glass of wine in one hand, the other in the pocket of his loose grey trousers. “And fancy you being here. Shouldn’t you be off protecting our shores from the terrible Germans?”

“Oh, no,” Paul replied solemnly. “That’s happening on Friday. Tonight is strictly for mourning me freedom.”

Laughing at Paul’s mint julep, Joe said, “Ah, I see. Forgive me.”

“Still in the newspaper trade, eh, Flo?” Monika tapped the ash from her cigarette into the sink, giving him a flirtatious look as she did so. Joe, to his credit, did nothing more than duck his head and smile.

“Yes, indeed, I am,” Joe said, raising his eyes first to Paul, then to Monika.

“Britannica gave ye a night off, then?” Paul asked, sympathetic. Joe laughed. “Apparently. Yes.”

“Tell me,” Monika started in brusque, business-like tones, “word is they want performers. That true?”

Paul frowned and took a drag from his cig. “The troops, d’ye mean?”

“Who else! All those boys in uniform. Tell me it’s true, dear, don’t hold out now.”

When Joe shrugged playfully, the man in the wig pretended to fan Monika as she swooned. “Honestly, I’m not sure,” Joe amended, laughing. “Possibly. War makes everyone dreadfully sentimental. You might find yourself singing lovelorn ballads to a hall of new recruits.”

As Monika started on a diatribe about the merits of performing in drag, Paul caught Joe’s eye. Before he could lose his nerve, Paul said, “Listen, mate, you’ve not seen a bloke come by –”

Joe watched him with solemn, still eyes. The words died in Paul’s throat. He smiled apologetically. “Never mind.”

The noise from the living room had risen a couple of octaves. Quite suddenly the light from the overheard lights went dim; a bubble of laughter pre-empted some lamps being turned on. Yellow light washed up the hallway, illuminating the entrance to the sitting room as if it belonged to Aladdin’s cave. Paul watched over Joe’s shoulder as figures made themselves comfortable in a more languid fashion, the atmosphere dipping into one aided only by enough drink and sultry enough music. The scarlet walls seemed to glow warmly in the gloom.

Paul closed his eyes briefly and inhaled the mingled scent of cologne, clean sweat, cigarette smoke, and a whisper of Monika’s perfume. He was startled to realize that he was disappointed at the fact Lennon hadn’t come by.  _Well,_ he rationalized awkwardly,  _not all birds are of a feather._

When he opened his eyes he half-expected Joe to be watching him. Instead, Joe was gazing down the hall to the sitting room, where through the sliver of doorway Brian was perched on the end of a settee. A cigarette smouldered between his knuckles as he laughed shyly at someone’s joke.

Paul looked at Joe’s profile. “Maybe you should be singin’ those lovelorn ballads, Flo.”

Startled out of his reverie, Joe smiled sadly. “You could be right.” He collected himself. “What were going to ask me before, Paul? I’m sorry to have forgotten.”

A vague image of fluffy auburn hair and a ferocious scowl flitted through Paul’s mind. “Oh, s’alright.” At Joe’s questioning look, Paul smiled politely. “Really. C’mon, let’s join the others.”

The couple of drinks he’d had simmered in his veins. Paul followed Joe back into the sitting room, with Monika and her friend trailing along behind them. The air in here was close, with several newcomers having arrived in the time Paul had been in the kitchen. Someone was passing around a bottle of wine. On the piano in the corner, one of the tenors from the Playhouse was hamming up a rendition of  _[I'm Nobody's Baby.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oEMLjnAi8kU)_

Gruff cheers accompanied the performance, especially each time the pink-cheeked young man batted his eyes at a stoic military man sitting in a nearby armchair.

Paul grinned at the scene. He followed Joe through the crush towards Brian, who greeted them cheerily with a, “Oh, I thought you’d gotten lost!” Although they didn’t touch, Joe sat on the settee right next to Brian. When he thought no one was looking, he rested his arm beside Brian’s thigh.

Squashing in beside Joe, Paul leaned back and crossed his legs. He’d left his drink in the kitchen, so when the wine came his way, he took a long swallow. Monika giggled at him when some of it spilled down his chin. The pianist was tripping sarcastically towards a big finish, lisping as he sang  _take a chance with me_ , his suitor now busily occupied in fighting down a fond smile.

The song came to a triumphant end. They burst into applause, several men calling for an encore. Brian suddenly leaned around Joe and caught Paul’s eye. He pitched his voice just low enough to be heard beneath the happy clamour: “Won’t you play for us?”

Paul took a drag of his cigarette in lieu of answering. Monika called, “Paulie, if ye don’t, I’ll pull ye into the river meself!”

“I don’t want to interrupt the party,” Paul protested weakly, already getting to his feet.

Joe patted his leg as he passed. “There you are. Go on, Paul. Be a sport.”

From the midst of the room someone said loudly, “Really, we just want an excuse t’look at ye!”

Titters and whoops made Paul roll his eyes. “Who am I t’refuse, then?” he commented sarcastically. Several men laughed and cheered him towards the piano.

Paul remembered when Brian bought the thing.  _You don’t think it’s too…_ Then Brian had remembered who he was talking to. He’d broken off with a blush and stammered something about it not mattering, anyway, and music was music.

There was no mystery in what Brian had been thinking. Unless it was a music hall, pianos only belonged in the front parlours of places like Forthlin. Only Brian’s theatre background allowed such a social step down.

Weaving around the clutter of legs, chairs, and cigarettes, Paul finally sat down on the double piano stool. The bloke who’d played before shot him a wink when their gaze snagged across the room. Biting down a pleased smile, Paul turned his big eyes to his audience.

“Any requests, lads?”

As a good-natured argument ensued, Paul launched into [a bright Gershwin rendition](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SiW1lBsHnRE). He focused on the play of his fingers on the keys. Despite the curl of gin in his veins, Paul bit his bottom lip as he concentrated and felt the music unwind within him.

A loud whistle pierced his concentration. “Look at ‘im go,” Monika crowed, “the boy’d play in a dark room!”

Paul wrinkled his nose over his shoulder, breaking into a broad grin. “If that’s how ye feel, love,” he said sweetly, “I’ll not refute it.”

He looked back at the keys and spilled into [a Porter song. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3aeQ3DmKU7A)The opening chords sent Brian’s theatre fellows into hysterics. It sounded pared back without the trombones or string section, but Paul amped it up by leaning heavily on the pedals. As he began to sing, he played into the silliness for all he was worth. Paul caught the eyes of blokes in the audience as he warmed into the performance. A sense of intense pleasure welled within him, with all those grins aimed his way. Paul raised his eyebrows to punctuate,  _But now, God knows, anything goes!,_ and shrugged as he improvised,  _If Cary Grant you like,_ and broke into a short laugh when Monika sang in her deep, husky voice,  _Or me undressed you like!_

Through the din came the buzzing of the front door. Paul barely noticed Brian slip through the crowd, having slowed the tempo right down until he started to sing, [“ _You got that thing, you got that thing…”_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KgW5L4uUKqE)

Laughing as a couple of blokes stood up to dance with each other, Paul watched them as he played cheerily. The tenor from before leaned into his military man’s shoulder and sang raunchily, “ _But you, you’ve got an orchard!”_

Paul had swung into a drawn-out middle eight, a few more couples standing up to move the furniture aside for a makeshift dance, when Brian appeared by his side. Glancing over his shoulder but continuing to play, Paul said, “Aspire to Fowkes, d’ye, Eppy?”

“I’ll leave that to you,” Brian replied, characteristically dry and amused. “Actually, it’s someone unexpected.”

His pulse skipped at a sudden thought. Paul forced himself to finish the song. When made to get up from the piano, some blokes by the window booed him. “No fear, lads,” Paul called, quirking his eyebrows. The tenor caught his eye and peeled free from his man, slipping into the stool Paul vacated and immediately tripping into a slow jazz standard.

Smoothing his hands over his thighs, Paul turned around. Lurking behind Brian was a mop of auburn hair. As Brian smiled and went back over to Joe, John raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh,” Paul said, a hot thrill shooting through him. “Hullo.”

John held their gaze. He was dressed in a pair of loose slacks and a fitted white shirt, looking quite different to the way he’d appeared at the fundraiser. With suspenders, scuffed brogues, and a scowl as he peered through small, gold-rimmed round glasses, he loomed larger than life in their cultured little gathering of sleek men and fey lads.

Wrinkling his nose to hitch his glasses up, John’s amber eyes blinked slowly in regard.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and solemn.

“You came,” Paul blurted, and when John smiled in response, his skin prickled warm.

“So it appears, sailor.” From beneath his fringe he pulled away to survey the crowd. Many of the guests had settled down somewhat, slipping into conversation as the piano slid through [a honeyed rendition of Holiday.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4P0hG3sD0-E) Unable to look away, Paul thought distantly,  _With each word…_

When their eyes met again, something shy skittered through John’s expression. “Got anythin’ t’drink?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Paul gestured for John to follow him through the crush. The press of people made John come close behind Paul; and it was in a startled rush that he could smell the cold as it clung to John’s skin, and something else that was American tobacco. They went through into the dim hallway. The music faded gently as Paul came into the kitchen, the distant burble of laughter and conversation mingling with clinking glasses and a raucous anecdote from Monika.

Feeling clumsy, Paul found the tea urn from which Monika had served his mint juleps. He collected two glasses and poured them both a generous amount. When he turned to hand the glass to John, his pulse thrummed with the realization that John had been watching him the whole while.

“Thanks,” John said languidly, accepting the drink. Paul arched an eyebrow and held his glass up in a mock toast. “To the war.”

John’s jaw set. He stared at Paul with an inscrutable expression. Then, with a sudden bark of laughter, he made to tip his drink forward for Paul to clink them together. At the last moment, he curled his glass into his chest and grinned wickedly. “To abstinence.”

Paul pretended to frown. “That’s a mighty big word, Mister Lennon.”

“John,” he corrected instantly. “I forgot all ye naval folk were too pretty t’ever learn howta read.”

“They’re very conflicting attributes,” Paul agreed.

“Mm. However do ye do it?”

“Depends on the day. Usually I flip a coin.”

John grinned broadly. It lightened up his closed-off, languorous resting expression, making his eyes glitter playfully. The sight made Paul laugh lowly and look down into his drink. When he glanced back up, John’s grin faded into a smirk.

He took a slug from his glass, then he coughed almost immediately. “Christ!” John held the mint green contents up to the light. “What the bloody hell is that?”

Paul pulled a face and considered his own drink. “Honestly? M’not entirely sure.”

“Tastes like lighter fluid,” John muttered, peering short-sightedly, and Paul said, “Aye, you’d know, would ye?”

“The newspapers drove me to it,” John replied mournfully. “I used to stick t’petrol.”

Nodding knowingly, Paul leaned a hip against a counter. “That’d explain the…”

John’s tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip. He moved over to mirror Paul’s body language, slouching where Paul was angled, his gaze shrouded by his curling, soft fringe. In the low light of the kitchen his aquiline nose gave his appearance an arresting quality; there was an upperclass echo to his close-set features, that proud mouth, the eyes that were perpetually post-coital. He raised his glass to take a long drink, his gaze pinned to Paul. The joke shrivelled on Paul’s tongue.

“Bird got yer tongue, McCartney?” John asked lowly.

He swallowed. “It’s Paul. And if the bird has white feathers, then I s’pose so.”

“How very droll,” John retorted. He shifted away to lean both elbows on the counter behind him, the glass dangling from one loose hand. Tilting his head to watch Paul sip at his drink, John smiled, the action caught between a slow tease and something harder. “Figures,” he said.

“Cryptic,” Paul commented dryly.

“I mean, we all know the navy’s got a repu _ta_ tion,” John elaborated. “But, I mean, surely you’ve got a girl or boy hidden away somewhere. A little thing t’keep ye warm at night. Cook yer tea. Warm yer slippers.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Just how old d’ye think I am?”

“Old enough,” John quipped. “I hope.”

Flushing, Paul bit his lip. “As it happens, I don’t. Used to, like, but it fizzled out.”

In a laconic tone of voice, John said, “How terrible.”

Paul laughed. “Shut up. She was a nice girl, as it happens. Y’know, what with me bein’ away so much fer training. Just turns out the lad down the road was around that little bit more.”

“Let me guess. His Da’s got the keys to the local butchery, and he’s next in line.”

He shrugged. “No girl’s going t’pass up a solid income and a steady household.”

“Well, can’t say I’m too sad she chose butcher boy.” Before Paul could reply, John put his glass down and began to fidget through his pockets. When he pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, the slender length of his fingers made Paul’s stomach twist. They looked at each other. “Smoke?”

“Ta, thanks.” Paul took the offered cig and leaned in for John to light it. He steadied a hand on Paul’s wrist, catching the flame once, twice, before a sweet plume of smoke blossomed between them. Paul took a long drag. When he pulled back to exhale a stream over his shoulder, John licked his lips. “These American?” Paul asked, voice warmed by gin.

“I love Americans,” John replied. He lit his own cigarette and put his free hand in the pocket of his trousers, lifting the cig thoughtfully to his mouth. Unlike at the fundraiser, where John had smoked with irritable efficiency, as if someone was about the barge through the crowd and snatch his cigarette away, he did so now with a languid contemplation. The longer John watched him, the warmer Paul’s skin became. He vaguely realized that John might be a little drunk, presumably from having some drinks prior to arrival, if the slow way in which John blinked was anything to go by.

“How come?” Paul made himself ask.

Shrugging one shoulder, John flicked the end of his cigarette. “Dunno,” he said with smoke curling from his nostrils, “they’re so free. They really don’t give a fuck about anythin’. Over there, I reckon ye could piss on the flag and they’d find it a right laugh. But in this country, you’ve gotta watch yer back every minute of the bloody day lest ye offend some _noble_ sensibilities.”

As if on cue, Brian’s figure slipped past the doorway from the sitting room. He paused to lean down to murmur something in Joe’s ear.

“Like him,” John pointed out. “Now there’s a toff with delusions of adequacy.”

“No.” Paul smoked thoughtfully. “They’re not delusions.”

“Well, well.” John shot him a sideways teasing look. “Is no one free from your pithy observations?”

“Is that what they are?” Paul asked, all innocence. “I hadn’t even noticed.”

From the sitting room came Monika’s longing call: “Paul!”

“Oh dear,” John laughed, as Paul grinned. “No, she’s lovely, really.”

“Paul!” Monika appeared at the far end of the hallway. She made a triumphant noise and stared towards them, the green scales of her dress gleaming in the low light. When she emerged into the kitchen, her cheeks were flushed with one too many mint juleps.

“Well,” she started, staring at John. “ _Hello_ there. Paul.” Monika wove around the table and smiled. “Introduce us, won’t ye.”

As swiftly as a curtain closing, John’s laconic expression had returned. He puffed on his cigarette, which was dangling from the corner of his mouth, and deliberately examined Monika from head to toe. “Who’ve we got here, then.”

“Monika,” Paul introduced wryly, “John. John, this is Monika.”

“ _Enchantée,”_ Monika murmured. Much to Paul’s amusement, John took her outstretched hand and kissed the back of it. But just as Monika said, “You’re a little livewire,” John blinked up at her and said sweetly, “You’ve got nice tits, ye know.”

Huffing as she pulled her hand free, Paul hid his burst of laughter in his cigarette. John only grinned, looking like the cat who’d got the cream.

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Paul tried, putting a hand on Monika’s back and rubbing. With a toss of blonde curls, she put her hands on her hips and regarded her anatomically dubious bosom. In her grungy, city street accent, she said, “Ye reckon, son?”

“Oh, aye.” John nodded importantly and took a drag from his cig. “Best knockers I’ve ever seen, that’s fer sure.”

“Ye can see me with ‘em off, if ye like,” Monika deadpanned. As Paul looked up at the ceiling for help, John merely let out a bark of laughter.

“Trust me, love, normally I’d say yes.” Over Monika’s shoulder, he caught Paul’s gaze and held it. Paul’s breath caught in the back of his throat.

Making a noise of profound understanding, Monika tapped the side of her nose. “I know when a bird’s not wanted. In case you’re interested,” she added in an undertone, “there’s a new little place opened on Queen’s Square. Very private, like. Nice for a bit of…” She quirked her eyebrows and whistled shortly.

“Is that right.” John traded a look with Paul. Amusement, clear and daring, flickered in his eyes. “Might be we see fer ourselves. Eh, Paulie?”

His heart thumped loudly in response. “’Paulie’?” he said instead.

Monika swatted at his arm. “Oh, you fuckin’ love it, ye flit. Come on, boys.” She gestured with long painted fingernails. Playing into the game, John and Paul pretended to mindlessly shuffle after her. When they stuck in the doorway, Paul bit down a grin and shoved John out of the way. John growled, “Like it rough, do ye? Interestin’,” and Paul pursed his lips and said, “Not fer you, Johnny.”

John’s eyes darkened. He followed close behind Paul as they went back into the sitting room. His cigarette hand hovered by Paul’s waist, as if he were considering touching it. When Monika was drawn into conversation with a gaggle of admirers, Paul caught Brian’s attention. He was perched neatly on the arm of a sofa, where Joe broke off whatever he was saying to smile at them both.

Mouthing goodbye, Paul mimed making for the door. Brian, to his credit, wasn’t dim enough to glance between him and John, but something complicated flitted over his face before he inclined his head. He mouthed goodnight; Joe tipped his cigarette to his head in a mock salute.

Together they wound through the party. Paul’s pulse felt heavy in his throat. When he fumbled with his jacket by the door, John leaned in close for a heady, complicated moment. “Don’t mind me,” John murmured in his ear. When he unhooked his own coat and leaned away, Paul exhaled unsteadily.

Stepping into the stairwell and closing the door behind them, Paul was seized with an urge to go back inside. John’s features were shrouded in the gloom. Only the end of his cigarette illuminated the steady way in which they watched each other.

“Hope ye know where we’re goin’,” Paul tried lightly. “Because I’m sure t’get lost.”

As they started down the flights of stairs, John said, “That works fer ye, doesn’t it.” When Paul shot him a questioning look, he added, “The little-orphan-lost act.”

The absence of body heat and laughter made the stairwell seem terribly chill in comparison. Their shoes clipped on the stairs as they descended. Shadows played across John’s slender figure; their arms brushed as they kept step.

“I really dunno what ye mean,” Paul answered after a confused pause.

John flicked his cigarette into the dark. “Sure ye do. Ye blink those big eyes and play all nice, and people fall over themselves fer ye. I’m right, don’t say I’m not.”

Paul blinked rapidly as he processed this. “D’ye – is that what ye do? Ye fancy yourself as some kind of Scouser Sherlock Holmes?”

“Why,” John asked quickly, “am I right?”

“Didn’t say that.” They reached the foyer. Paul pulled open the front door and gestured John through. The moment they left the building, a rush of crisp September air reared up to meet them. Puffing out his cheeks and sticking his hands in his pockets, Paul went down the steps. As one they turned right on the street and, by silent agreement, made towards the centre of the city.

“S’not a criticism,” John said belatedly. His lighter clicked in the dark. Paul wordlessly accepted the new cigarette he passed him. Their fingers, when they touched, were rough and warm. “S’just an observation.”

“Not sure I like bein’ observed,” Paul admitted. “Ye make it sound like I’m a sort of master manipulator.”

John blinked at him in mock fear. “Oh my, that’s a big word.”

Paul snorted. “Fuck off.”

“Oh! The boy’s mouth filthies! Whatever will the sergeant say when his golden lad is made out to be,” John held up his cigarette for emphasis, “A, not only a poofter, but B, a terrible example for all the fresh-faced young recruits that ‘ave come swimmin’ in fer the war.”

The word _poofter_ made Paul’s pulse skip nervously. “Let me guess,” he said tartly, “they’ll be had hook, line, and sinker?” When John nudged their shoulders together and crowed, “He gets it, at last!” Paul only rolled his eyes.

“Better t’be in the water than malingering on the shore.”

They came to the end of Falkner. John immediately started across the street, Paul keeping pace. In the indeterminate hour, most of the lights in the surrounding flats had disappeared, the only pools of illumination cast by the streetlamps that flickered with the passing ocean breeze. The scent of salt brushed past John and brought with it something that could have been his cologne. Paul inhaled before he could think too much about it. The smoke burned in his lungs.

“There’s no point in explain my choices t’ye,” John was saying. “To serve or not to serve. What a bloody boring question. They should ask, ‘D’ye feel like dyin’, lad? Getting’ blown up? Losing your legs? No? Alright then, next.’”

Paul shook his head. “In case you’ve not noticed, we’re not the ones who declared war.”

“No, yeah, I forgot. As bloody usual, we’re only reactin’.”

“Overreacting,” Paul corrected. “According to your logic.”

A drift of smoke pre-empted John’s short laugh. “There’s no logic in war, Paul. It’s all emotion. A battle of egos. You’d think we’d learned our lesson last time ‘round, but d’ye reckon anyone’s rememberin’ old Dad with no arms, or uncle George with his bad lungs?” His voice had risen in heat. John scoffed. “Didn’t think so.”

“My Dad fought last time ‘round,” Paul said. He had a hazy recollection of meeting his father at the train station, running through the crowd to find him. Jim had dropped his kit bag and bundled him into his arms. The half-remembered smell of mud and wool made Paul blink rapidly. He took a pull from his cigarette. “He was the one who wanted me t’serve.”

Paul sort of expected John to immediately use this as verbal ammunition, but instead he lapsed momentarily into silence. “S’no way t’live,” he murmured eventually. “War ruins more than the body.”

“Yeah,” Paul echoed. “’Least I can agree with that.”

The street they were on started rolling downhill, towards Queen’s Square. A couple of blocks over and the merriment of the evening still burned. John exhaled a cloud of smoke and said suddenly, “You’re not a pigheaded warmongerer.”

Paul laughed sarcastically. “Oh, thanks,” he retorted.

“I mean, you’re a bloody idiot fer buying the propaganda. And you’ll probably end up on the bottom of the ocean, which you’ll deserve –”

“For being an idiot,” Paul clarified.

“Right. But I’ll say this. You’re not pricking me with all those damned questions. ‘Why not?’ ‘You’ll change yer mind.’”

Paul couldn’t think of a nice way to suggest that John seemed incapable of changing his mind, let alone allowing someone else to try or do it for him, and so he merely pursed his lips and tapped the ash from his cigarette.

“The truth is,” John continued heatedly, “it’s morally wrong. The conversation should bloody well end there. There’s no sense in killing, and violence, and cruelty. War should not be used to sort out everyone’s fuckin’ problems.”

It was very much as if John existed in a parallel world. Paul knew that what he was saying made sense in a roundabout sort of way, but it was a complex task to untangle his feelings from John’s passion. He’d spent half his boyhood in uniform, first at school, and then in the navy. When he was old enough to pick up his father’s trumpet, Jim had said, _There’s no future in music, son, take it from me,_ and so Paul had done the next best sensible thing.

Admitting all of this felt suddenly an arduous task. Instead, Paul finished his cigarette, flicked it into the gloom, and looked over at John. “S’pose you’re right.”

“What?” Mollified, John stared at him. “You agree with me?”

Paul shrugged. “Theoretically, sure. Ye can’t expect me t’change me mind after one late-night conversation, but I see where you’re comin’ from.”

“Christ.” John turned back to his cigarette and raised his eyebrows. “Wasn’t expectin’ that.”

“M’not an up and down law-abider, ye know,” Paul said, only half-joking. “I do have a mind beneath me white hat.”

“Just make sure ye keep it.” Before Paul could open his mouth, John leaned their sides together and gestured down the street. “There it is. Monika’s hideaway.” He met Paul’s gaze and grinned warmly.

Paul’s chest swooped. He pulled his eyes away to look at the tucked-away stairwell that dropped below street level. Across the square other night owls tripped, bawdy songs drifting out the front door from the pub on the corner, the streetlamps puddling on the stone pavement. When they approached the slick black steps, Paul paused.

John raised his eyebrows at him. “Ah,” he surmised quietly. “All fine in little flats, but bein’ out and about…”

“Ye can’t say I’m being unreasonable,” Paul said shortly. He glanced down at the door, above which glowed a single light. If John hadn’t pointed it out, he would have walked straight past such a place. That was presumably the whole point; it was just another careful stone in the wall around their secret world.

“No,” John drew the word out. Chucking away his cig, he swayed close enough to press their arms together. At this proximity, he seemed soft and far away, as if he were torn between luring Paul into the strange queer bar or running for the hills. When Paul swallowed, John’s gaze dipped momentarily. “But you’re not bein’ reasonable, either.”

Paul gave him a flat look. John shrugged. “What? I can’t be witty all the time, son.”

He laughed despite himself and looked back at the door. An incredulous voice in the back of his mind thought of things like staff sergeants and letters of commission and his hitherto restricted life beyond Brian’s private parties. Paul ran his tongue nervously over his bottom lip. John’s gaze prickled his profile. At length, Paul caught his eyes in his peripheral vision. John waited. Paul rolled his eyes and gave a small smile.

Victorious, John clapped his shoulder. “No time like the present!”

“And war doesn’t wait fer anyone?” Paul guessed facetiously. He followed John down the short flight of stairs. When he reached the door, John turned and winked slowly at him. “You’re learning,” he observed lowly. The cadence of his voice sent something skittering through him, something that pulled Paul below the lip of the stairwell and through the glossy black door.

The bar was crammed into what must have once been an old docker’s storeroom. The ceilings, which was low and made of stone, gave the impression of being in a cave. They paused just inside the door as a man in civilian clothes looked them up and down.

“Let us in,” John said gruffly. The bloke merely raised one slender eyebrow.

“Like I’d turn yeh away,” he replied in a curt Scottish accent. “Half of everyone here is leavin’ in two days. You’ll only be snapped up, laddy.”

As John muttered something dark and shoved his way down another short flight of steps, Paul caught the doorman’s eye and made an apologetic face. “Some charmer yeh’ve got!” he said to Paul’s back.

Sure enough, once he and John rounded a pillar, they found themselves in a perfect storm. The air was thick and pungent with cigarette smoke, which hung in voluminous silver clouds from the ceiling. Along one side was a bar with a long, sticky-looking counter, accentuated by gold fixings that gleamed in the sultry light, which was cast by ornate, arty-looking lamps that clung to the walls. Between the bar and the stage was a dance space, which was currently brimming with a collection of men that would have Brian apoplectic with envy. Up onstage, beneath warm yellow lights, a slender black man in a suit crooned a jazz standard.

Paul’s eyes were pinned to the backing band. He listened to the thrum of the double bass, the tinkling of the piano keys, the longing exhale of the trombone. John appeared by his side and murmured right in his ear, “We’re not here to ogle, McCartney,” then pulled him towards the bar.

The men who dotted the sidelines appraised them. Such attention wasn’t entirely untoward, and Paul found himself meeting a few propitiatory looks from beneath his dark lashes. John noticed and smirked at him. When they were pressed together at the bar, he leaned in.

“Doin’ it again, Paul.”

He met John’s warm, steady eyes. “Feelin’ jealous, Johnny?”

John smirked. The action coaxed a dimple into existence, which made Paul swallow against the corresponding bolt of heat in his veins. John crossed his arms on the counter and brought his face close to Paul’s. “You,” he enunciated slowly, “wish.”

“Aye,” Paul answered immediately, honestly. John’s expression skittered in surprise. “Might do.”

The barman – woman – materialized before them. John turned away and ordered them two drinks, raising his voice over the burble of music and conversation to make himself heard. Paul watched the band and tapped his fingers to the beat. When John passed him a tumbler of something thick and honeyed, he smiled and said, “Ta, John.”

“You’re welcome,” John replied. The instant dip in his accent made Paul grin over the lip of his glass. John noticed and peered at him through his specs.

“What’s that for, then?” he demanded.

Paul’s skin warmed beneath his scrutiny. “You put that on like a suit.”

“What?”

“Your manners. Ye put them on like a suit.”

John made a thoughtful noise. “Well-pressed?”

Biting his bottom lip, Paul watched him with mounting fondness. “Very.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Abruptly, John pushed away from the bar. At Paul’s questioning look, he gestured to Paul’s jacket. “I’ll take ‘em to the coat room. Must be boiling down here.”

Now that John had mentioned it, Paul’s skin prickled damply. Paul took a sip from his drink, which was whiskey, then shrugged off his jacket. John irritably waved off Paul’s word of thanks, took it, and shouldered his way through the crowd. In his thin shirt, Paul felt suddenly conspicuous. Without John to lurk and comment, he subtly studied the crowd.

To his immense surprise, the majority of men were in uniform. The doorman had been dead right: the same nervous energy that had gripped the pub infused this tiny bar. It lingered on each promising swell of the saxophone, in the grip of men’s arms on each other’s waists as they danced slowly, even in the sharp scent of sweat in the air. No one, Paul noticed with a shadow of relief, was kissing or doing anything other than talking, laughing, or dancing. Unlike Brian’s parties, which had been known to trip rapidly from politely raucous to dramatic and outrageous – a fact that was not, however, condoned by Brian, who tended to hover nervously and had a habit of refilling glasses in lieu of participating in the merriment himself – the atmosphere here was subdued, intimate. As Paul took another sip of his drink, he was overcome by an intense wave of comfort. The men that danced looked so...

“Ruddy coat attendant wanted a right chat,” John grumbled in his ear. He elbowed his way back to Paul’s side and immediately picked up his glass. After a long slug, he said, “Christ, it’s like everyone’s in fuckin’ heat.”

The implication made Paul flush. “Right,” he managed. “You reckon?”

John snorted. “’Course. War is Here. Death is Imminent.” Paul could practically see the sarcastic capitals as he spoke. “Better Shag While ye Can.”

It flickered through John’s expression so quickly, Paul almost missed it, but he felt quite suddenly that beneath John’s acerbic tone lurked something that, were he someone else, Paul might have called wistful.

As John glared at the singer up on stage, Paul felt a thrum of daring beneath his skin.

He finished his drink. When he put the glass down, Paul reached out and gently brushed John’s waist. John started violently. He turned his head to stare at Paul.

Paul smiled warmly. “Wanna dance?” 

John went very still. He mechanically pushed his glasses further up his nose.

“Come on,” Paul needled. “I’m goin’ off t’war on Friday.”

“What?” A thread of alarm coloured John’s tone. When Paul frowned in bemusement and said, “Yeah, I’m shipping out,” John blinked rapidly. He looked down at his glass. After a loaded moment, he threw it back in a single motion.

“Fuck it,” John muttered to himself. With a renewed glint of intent in his eye, John considered Paul. “Let’s fuckin’ dance.”

Putting the empty glass down on the counter, John started out towards the dance floor. Paul followed close behind. When they wormed their way through the couples and into the middle of the throng, they stopped to look at each other. The music paused for a heartbeat before smoothing into a languid, downtempo song; the singer’s voice simmered and burned, [Fitzgerald's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXYKGL6MgKM) tone echoing in his own sweet melody. Bodies brushed their shoulders as they swayed. John appeared immobilized.

With a questioning, soft look, Paul slowly reached for John’s waist. He started again, although no one glanced at his sudden movement. Fluffy air curled into John’s eyes; he raked his fingers back through his fringe, only for it to flop back across his forehead. Paul’s mouth pinched with a smile.

“Nothing t’be unreasonable about,” Paul echoed lowly. “In fact, I’d say it’s pretty damned reasonable.”

John scoffed and glanced briefly to the side. When he looked back up at Paul, something cautious slipped through his amber eyes. “Alright,” he said. “Come ‘ead.”

They stepped closer until the toes of their shoes brushed. Paul put his hand into the dip of John’s waist, feeling how warm his skin was through his cotton shirt. John put his left hand on Paul’s shoulder. They clasped their free hands. And slowly, half-wondering if John was about to bolt, they began to dance.

John’s face was very near to his own. He blinked slowly, his eyelashes long and dusty in the warm light. When his mouth parted softly, Paul’s pulse stuttered. As they swayed in place Paul became aware of John’s hard stomach, which was only a hairsbreadth from his own, and his skin prickled at the implication of such a thing. His throat was tight when he swallowed. John’s hand was firm in his, and his waist curved in such a smooth way that Paul found himself thinking about what it'd be like to run his fingers over John's bare skin.

The subtle intimacy of the moment washed over him. Paul glanced between John’s eyes and his mouth, thinking of maybe -

“You were really good at the party,” John said suddenly, his voice hushed. Paul licked his bottom lip and blinked. “Yeah?” he echoed lightly.

“When you played,” John elaborated. The music blossomed in the subtropical gloom. Paul felt his pulse drum through him, close to the surface, his body concentrating on the twin points of heat where John was touching him. “And when y’sing. I watched ye the other night.”

Paul exhaled, “Yeah?”

“Couldn’t look away.” John sounded low and sincere, albeit slightly stilted, as if even this mild omission meant something far deeper, something more intense than Paul could ever guess. His eyes darted to Paul’s mouth and back in a heartbeat. Paul tipped his head to the side.

He smiled slowly. “S’pose I write t’ye when I’m away.”

John searched Paul’s gaze. When he smiled back it was a secret, shy thing, made for nights like this. “S’pose I write back.”

“I’d like that,” Paul admitted.

“Yeah.” John’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. “Me too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, find me @stonedlennon on tumblr x thank you so much for reading.


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